


Empty Handed

by sunaddicted



Series: A Journey [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Confusion, Dubious Consent, Future Fic, Heavy Angst, Lack of Communication, M/M, Sexual Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 16:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13485324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: He wasn't an expert when it came to love, but Oswald was pretty sure that it wasn't supposed to feel like that: as if he was balancing on a rickety stool, a rough rope biting into the sensitive and tender skin of his neck and his twisted leg threatening to buckle under his weight.





	Empty Handed

**Author's Note:**

> I've put the Dubious Consent tag on this fic because Oswald still is figuring out his asexuality and doesn't know how to communicate with Edward who, I assure you, isn't forcing himself upon Oswald.

_Empty Handed_

Oswald clamped his fingers on the edge of the desk, trying to keep himself from skittering across its sleek surface under the strenght of Edward's thrusts, and watched his knuckles turn a livid and bloodless white he'd seen on too far many corpses. Just behind them, trembling like leaves in the wind, there was a pile of paperwork that had been pushed aside and that Oswald really should have been tending to: it was almost unbelievable, but his criminal activities produced even more documents than his legal ones did - he supposed that was the difference between organised crime and utter chaos.

Amongst the creaking noises made by the polished wood, the lurid smacking of flesh and bones against one another and Edward's panting, Oswald didn't even have to put in the effort to fake moans and grunts of pleasure. He just had to make sure that Edward never fucked him on his back, so that he could hide his body's lack of reactions, and to reassure him that he wasn't a vocal person in bed whenever he inquired if he had enjoyed himself - not that it happened that often, Edward was rather single-minded about his pleasure.

Besides, why should he have demanded that Edward did things differently? Oswald didn't even know what he liked in bed - didn't even know _if_ he liked sex: his romantic feelings had never been mixed up with sexual fantasies and even before Edward wormed his way in his life with a riddle in the middle of the GCPD, Oswald had always known that his indifference towards sex wasn't the norm. That he was different.

A freak.

Or maybe it was his own fault: Oswald had damaged himself badly enough, the hours spent staring at Edward's frozen body - desperately clinging to the only emotion that still made him feel human: his love for the other man - had only made him feel number and more detatched from his inner core, to the point that Oswald shut down and dissociated from reality whenever Edward kissed him or bent him over the nearest horizontal surface.

He wasn't an expert when it came to love, but Oswald was pretty sure that it wasn't supposed to feel like that: as if he was balancing on a rickety stool, a rough rope biting into the sensitive and tender skin of his neck and his twisted leg threatening to buckle under his weight.

It hadn't felt like that the first time around.

Did it even make sense talking about a first and a second time when he had never been able to move on and the object of his affections hadn't changed?

Maybe not.

He had never stopped loving Edward, after all; not when he discovered how his friend had desecrated his father's remains; not when Edward had spat through gritted teeth that he didn't love him and had shot him off of the pier; not even when he had been mocked for being an emotional person, someone who let feelings rule over his brain.

Oswald had signed up for eternity when he had given his heart away to a man who had slowly wormed his way in his life, one frustrating riddle after the other, and there was no going back - not for Oswald, who had prayed and hoped for Edward to love him back one day. Now he had what he had wanted and sure, it wasn't perfect - it wasn't what his mother would have wanted for him - but it was better than when all that Edward had been able to give him was hatred.

A particularly hard thrust made Oswald grimace in pain, whole face twisting beyond recognition in an attempt at keeping any noises of discomfort trapped behind his gritted teeth and tightly sealed lips as his hipbones were mashed against the edge of the desk, purple shaded bruises blossoming on his pale skin.

Convolvulus major flowers adorning his body.

He couldn't wait for Edward to finish.

The feeling of something warm filling him up - marking him; possessing him; making him someone he wouldn't recognise in the mirror - made Oswald shudder in revulsion and he dropped one hand between his thighs, as if he was stroking himself through his climax. Oswald had always been a good liar - a believable one: he put his whole body into it, kept under control every single reaction and those he couldn't manage to repress, Oswald turned to his advantage.

A shudder of disgust became a shivering orgasm.

The tired slumping against the desk filled with confusion and self-loathing became the bodily abandonment to the afterglow.

The empty and balled up handkerchief became the receptacle of essence he hadn't spilled.

Lies upon lies.

And Edward kissed the nape of his neck, grateful and fooled - oblivious. Or maybe just uncaring. Oswald didn't knew and, truth to be told, he hadn't even given the other man an opportunity to prove whether he would be understanding or cruel: he was too scared of losing Edward because he was in it just for the sex and, once he learnt that Oswald didn't particularly like it or wasn't remotely interested in it, he would leave.

Oswald kept religiously silent, as mute as a grave, in an attempt at clinging to Edward for as long as he could: sex was a relatively small sacrifice he had to make, if he kept his eyes on the prize - Edward's affection or the imitation thereof.

"Sorry about forgetting the condom" Edward murmured, voice soft and lips moving against the clammy skin of the nape of Oswald's neck.

"It's alright" it wasn't - he was repulsed by the stickiness cooling inside of him - but it was no use fighting over spilled milk "I didn't remind you of it either" Oswald reassured, moving a little under Edward - subtly asking to be let up: his twisted leg was starting to protest and it loudly asked for the weight being taken off of it. Judging by the way Edward neatly slotted his legs behind Oswald's own, as if to hold them upright, and the way his hands carefully guided him in a straight position, fingers drumming against his ribcage, he probably knew just how much of a toll sex took on his body.

"We should try doing this on your back" Edward nuzzled into Oswald's hair, mouth seeking for the soft patch of skin behind his ear while his hands petted over the other's stomach, smoothing away the creases from the waistcoat.

Oswald shook his head as he zipped up his trousers, leaning back against the warm chest cradling him: that was the kind of memory that he would treasure and daydream about - the physical contact, pure and affectionate "I like it like this"

"I want to see your face"

Oswald turned around in Edward's arms "Here you go" he said, the impish smile a little tremulous.

Edward frowned "You know what I meant" his hand cupped Oswald's cheek, thumb caressing the thin skin under one of those bright blue eyes looking up at him with a mix of feelings too tightly entwined with one another to be easily discernible.

"I know. But I can't, not yet"

Not ever.

Edward's kiss tasted like ashes in his mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to write anything since November, I hope that this doesn't feel too stilted. 
> 
> Convulvus major flowers, in the Victorian language of flowers, mean hopelessness.


End file.
